


A Neighborly Text Message

by redpenny



Series: 'A Neighborly...' Series [5]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Body Image, Body Worship, Chubby Kink, Chubby Stiles Stilinski, Communication, Established Relationship, Firefighter Derek Hale, M/M, Misunderstandings, Teasing, Undernegotiated Kink, Weight Gain, Weight Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:28:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21765319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redpenny/pseuds/redpenny
Summary: The next day, Stiles still can't button his second-biggest pair of jeans.It's... possibly more of a problem this time.What with it being Monday and him being at work and how all he'd done was innocently pop his fly open to take a quick leak.He stares down at his midsection in betrayal.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: 'A Neighborly...' Series [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1548832
Comments: 40
Kudos: 346





	1. Chapter 1

Derek sets down his beer and leans back into the corner of the sofa. Stiles nestles his head back against his shoulder. If there's one nice thing about having a boyfriend with well-developed physique — besides the obvious — it's that spot between a well-developed pec and muscled shoulder that makes a perfect pillow for a lazy afternoon sprawl on the couch.

Stiles pops another chip into his mouth. On the TV, Lennie Briscoe starts questioning a witness.

He feels Derek's calloused fingers slip under his shirt and begin idly tracing one of the stretch marks on his hip.

"It's going to be him." Stiles points at the screen.

"No, it's the waitress." Derek pushes his hand forward, to cup his bare lower belly, where his shirt's already rucked up.

"She has an alibi," Stiles protests. "And he's got shifty eyes."

Derek makes a sound that doesn't entirely sound like acquiescence, but he distracts Stiles from further argument by giving his tummy a gentle squeeze.

As Briscoe gets a call that there's been another murder, Derek, in a familiar, practiced motion, pops the button of Stiles's jeans open. Stiles sucks in a bit to help, and then exhales comfortably, belly pushing his zipper partway down. They're his biggest jeans, but even they get a bit snug when he's sitting down.

Stiles tosses the empty bag of chips onto the table in front of them and leans back into Derek's side.

As the detectives speed to the scene of the new crime, Derek resumes giving Stiles a lazy belly rub. His touch is familiar. His hand knows every dip and crevice and curve of Stiles's midsection and goes straight to touching all the parts that feel best.

The show goes to commercial and Stiles glances down. Slouched like this, his side creases into thick rolls and his pale belly puffs out like a beach ball. A beach ball with an inch of two of doughy flesh on top of it, that is.

It shouldn't surprise him anymore to look down and find more than a burgeoning college beer belly, but it still does.

Derek's arm, all lean muscle and weightlifter's veins, circles his pudgy waist. His hand, tan and strong, rests casually proprietarily over the biggest bulge of his belly.

The contrast hardly does Stiles any favors. But, at the same time, he's been with Derek for four months now and he almost gets it sometimes.

There's something there. Something about watching the reverent way Derek touches him that makes his stomach fat look almost sexy.

A dum-dum-dum heralds the return of the show, but Stiles doesn't look up. He just watches Derek rub down the fat slope of his belly. The new puffiness around his belly button yields easily to his touch.

Stiles reaches down to trace the vein snaking over the back of Derek's hand.

Derek responds with a gentle squeeze under his belly button. Stiles bites his lip to suppress an embarrassing moan. But when Derek shifts his hand and gives the lower roll of his belly a proper squeeze, Stiles can't resist pushing into his touch.

Derek murmurs his name and Stiles feels him reach down to cup his dick through his jeans. He's hard, of course he is. Derek can't be surprised by that. He knows what he does to him.

As Derek works his half-undone zipper the rest of the way down, Stiles lets out a whine.

"I've got you. I've got you. C'mere." 

Derek shifts Stiles until he's situated between muscular thighs, and then he pushes at his jeans until they're down far enough to get his cock out. Between demands that Derek hurry up, Stiles spares a thought to be grateful that he wore his biggest jeans, so there's room.

Stiles is less grateful the next morning when the dried cum on his biggest jeans means that he's stuck with his second-biggest pair.

Especially when they won't button.

"This is your fault," Stiles informs Derek, coming to stand in front of where his fully dressed boyfriend is sitting at the kitchen table.

"What's my fault?" Derek looks him up and down. "That you can't button your shirt?"

"Just because I _haven't_ buttoned it yet doesn't mean I _can't_ ," Stiles huffs out in protest. His new blue button-down is new. It's in a size that Stiles doesn't like to think about, but it means that he can go to brunch without having to worry about looking like a slob — or losing a button — in front of Laura's judgmental eyebrows.

"Then what's the problem?"

Stiles scoffs. "Is it not obvious?"

But when he reaches down to demonstrate the distance between the flaps of his jeans, his belly is pushing too far over them.

He feels his cheeks heat as he has to suck in and push up his lower belly to show Derek that neither of the two buttons on his jeans are fastened.

"Oh." Derek clears his throat, staring. "Why are you trying to wear pants that don't fit?"

"They fit," Stiles argues. "They're just stiff from the wash."

"And that's my fault?"

"It's your fault that my other ones aren't fit for polite company."

The corner of Derek's mouth twitches. "You weren't complaining yesterday."

"You seduced me." Stiles releases the corners of his fly, letting his belly push back over it.

"Did I?" Derek reaches for belt loops at the sides of Stiles's jeans and tugs him in to stand between his legs.

Stiles insists, "I can't be held responsible."

Derek hums in response, and then pushes the sides of Stiles's button-down apart, spreading his hands over Stiles's naked belly.

"You know." Derek's eyes are more blue than green in this morning's sunlight. "I think you actually have gained some weight."

Stiles rolls his eyes. Derek says it like the answer to a question that Stiles decidedly did not ask.

"My jeans just aren't stretched out to normal yet. They still fit."

"But you must have gotten them on last time you washed them," Derek points out. And then, because he's never heard the word 'tact' before, he adds, "You've been feeling fuller lately, too."

"Dude, I haven't even had breakfast yet." Stiles bristles at the scrutiny. Maybe Stiles had eaten a few more pieces of the pizza they'd ordered last night than Derek had, but he hadn't made a complete pig of himself.

"No, not full like that. Full like..." Derek presses a hand over the middle of his stomach. Stiles can feel his belly, underneath the squish, pushing back into his hand. "Right here. You feel like you're filling out."

"Like I'm filling out," Stiles repeats. He levels Derek an unimpressed look even as his cock, clearly confusing being called fat with a prelude to sexytimes, perks up.

Derek nods. 

"Look, maybe you missed it, but my gut _filled out_ a while ago," Stiles tells him dryly. "And I think I'd know if I'd gained weight. Thanks for the unsolicited feedback on my girth, though."

"You gained 75 pounds in two years and didn't notice," Derek says.

"I noticed I'd gained _some_ ," Stiles grumbles as he pushes Derek's hand off of him.

Derek's lips twitch as he reaches under Stiles's stomach for his fly. "Want some help with this?"

Stiles huffs. "Well, I didn't come out here just to be called fat, did I?"

The next day, Stiles still can't button his second-biggest pair of jeans.

It's... possibly more of a problem this time.

What with it being Monday and him being at work and how all he'd done was innocently pop his fly open to take a quick leak.

He stares down at his midsection in betrayal.

He's only had his usual couple donuts, so his gut shouldn't be any bigger now than it had been when he'd buttoned them this morning—

Except. He hadn't been the one to button them this morning, had he?

He'd been about to. But then Derek had come up behind him, Fire Station 128 t-shirt stretching over his biceps, and he'd prodded Stiles to suck his tummy in and buttoned his jeans for him without being asked.

And then, as if helping his fat boyfriend get his jeans on was just a normal everyday thing to do, he'd simply kissed him and said he'd see him tomorrow night after his shift ended.

He narrows his eyes. Of course this would be Derek's fault.

Not that they shouldn't still fit. Stiles hadn't endured the squeeze of the waistband all day yesterday for his health. They should be stretched out by now.

But if it hadn't been for Derek, he'd have at least known that, without outside help, they're still literally inches away from closing.

He puts a hand experimentally on the fattest part of his gut, where Derek had said was feeling fuller.

Well, Stiles thinks resignedly as he looks in the mirror. The t-shirt he's wearing under his flannel might not be too tight but he _is_ certainly filling it out.

And he supposes he's technically more than filling out his jeans.

He sighs. At least his "filled out" gut covers up enough of the fly of his jeans that he won't get arrested for indecent exposure.

He turns to head back to his desk but then, on a whim, he stops and pulls out his phone.


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles yelps, drops his phone, and scrambles away, knocking his chair back into the cubicle wall. He darts his eyes around at the surrounding cubicles. 

Parrish, who shares the wall with him, arches an eyebrow, but then turns back to his work without a comment. None of the other officers even look up.

Stiles would be indignant at the blatant lack of concern for his well-being, except his phone is still sitting there on his desk. Sitting there like a small, rabid rodent ready to bite.

He approaches it with the caution he wishes he'd shown thirty seconds ago when his traitorous finger had slipped on the traitorous send button and — yes, there it is — the ominous "delivered".

He drops back into his chair with a creak of the springs and considers his options.

Pretend his phone was hacked by a disgruntled convict? Pretend it's a joke Scott played on him? Dump his phone a few blocks from the station, buy a new one, text Derek that it was stolen on his way to work and to ignore any communications that may have been sent since then?

He wouldn't mind a new phone. His is getting a bit scratched up.

But none of that would really explain how the selfie came to exist in the first place. It's pretty clearly Stiles aiming the camera at himself in the mirror.

He glares at his traitorous phone.

Maybe he can just follow up with the text and calmly, rationally explain that while, yes, he had taken the photo, composed the accompanying complaint, and marked "Hot Firefighter Dude" as the recipient, it hadn't been intended for _Derek_.

He'd simply been planning to deliberate over it for the next hour or two, and then delete the draft and erase all evidence from his phone and photostream.

And Stiles isn't the weird one here, anyways. Derek is the weird one. He's the one who enjoys seeing Stiles's fat ass struggle far more than someone who's spent the last four months denying having a fat kink should.

He bites his lip. The message still says "delivered", which means that Derek's either too busy doing bicep curls to check his phone, or he's out there earning himself another Firefighter of the Year award. Stiles would put the odds at about 50/50.

Maybe Derek will just ignore the text, anyways. Pretend Stiles hadn't just sent him a picture of his gut hanging out too far to button his jeans.

Yes. Maybe Derek will just politely ignore it. That would be for the best.

Stiles ... 

... doesn't really want Derek to ignore it.

Stiles taps his fingers on the desk. Taps his foot on the floor. Eats a donut with chocolate sprinkles.

It still says "delivered".

He idly hacks into the department's personnel database. He eats a donut with rainbow sprinkles.

In the middle of composing a scathing email to the network admins detailing all their security flaws —

 **> >** having trouble?

Stiles lets out a long breath and relaxes into his chair, feeling a smile spread on his face.

 **>** _need your help_  
 **>** _if I call 911 will you come button them for me?_

 **> >** NO

A moment later, there's a worried,

 **> >** You're not serious, are you?

He smirks at the phone.

 **> >** Don't call 911.

Stiles lets him stew for another moment and then types,

 **>** _you'd rather have me arrested for indecent exposure?_  
 **>** _i work in a police station_

 **> >** I told you they were too tight

Stiles rolls his eyes. Derek Hale's never met an "I told you so" he could resist.

To be fair, he might have said something to that effect when he'd come into the bedroom to find Stiles about to fasten them this morning. But he hadn't argued when Stiles protested that they did too fit. He'd just followed it up with a "You look nice" and then buttoned them for him unasked.

And, anyways, Derek's been telling him his clothes are too tight since the day they met. Statistically, he's bound to be right once in a while, but Stiles can't be expected to take him seriously when he's always crying wolf.

So he texts him back,

 **>** _but you're a wolf crier_

 **> >** ?

 **>** _a crier of wolf_

 **> >** ?

Stiles shifts in his seat, ready to type out a full explanation, but gets distracted by his stomach bumping into the edge of his desk.

That's hardly a rare occurrence. Or a new one. But he's feeling fatter than usual today. He can feel his chin fold into two just looking down at himself. Can feel his thighs push together. The weight of his gut on top of them. The squish of his love handles into the arms of his chair.

A chair he probably wouldn't even be fitting into if the station hadn't equipped all the cubicles with hefty chairs as standard. But, luckily, Stiles isn't the only one here susceptible to the draw of a donut or two.

But just because he's fat doesn't mean he's gained _more_ weight. He didn't pack on seventy-five pounds overnight. His gut reserved this space in his lap a while ago.

And it's not just seventy-five. It's not even just a hundred. He might have a hundred pounds on Derek, but Derek's an inch taller and packed with muscle. A hundred pounds ago for Stiles had his friends were teasing him for putting on a second freshman 15 and his sophomore-year girlfriend telling him his little tummy was cute, but did he really need those second curly fries?

He's not used to noticing those pounds all that often, though. Hadn't been too bothered by them, either. At least not until they'd started interfering with his prospects in the romance department. Though even then the thought of going on a diet had hardly been appealing.

But his weight isn't exactly hurting his prospects these days. Even if being with a guy who refuses to pretend he's not fat — or to keep his hands off that fat — has been making Stiles acutely aware that he's fatter than he's ever been.

And, well, back to the point. These jeans had buttoned last time he'd washed them. And he's not a complete slob — that wasn't that long ago.

 **>** _you really think i gained weight?_

 **> >** yes

Stiles glances down at his gut again. He rolls his chair back so it's no longer squishing into the desk.

 **>** _you might be right_

 **> >** might be

Derek's longstanding refusal to pretend Stiles isn't fat is annoying. And rude. And certainly isn't making his heart pick up.

And definitely doesn't make Stiles egg him on with,

 **>** _how am i getting so fat dude?_

 **> >** my name isn't dude

Stiles takes a screenshot of his conversation with "Hot Firefighter Dude" for counter-proof. He's about to send it when Derek replies again.

 **> >** and you're doing it the usual way

 **>** _the usual way?_

 **> >** you eat too much and you're out of shape

Fuck.

He does. And he is. He really is.

He still protests,

 **>** _hey fat people can be in shape_

 **> >** they can be but you're not

He bites his lip.

Maybe he's not too bothered by it on a normal day but that doesn't mean he likes being reminded how obvious it is.

It's embarrassing.

A _normal_ kind of embarrassing. Derek's the one bringing the kink to this relationship. Stiles is just bringing the chub.

 _Stiles_ isn't a fan of any of the numbers he's seen on the scale in the last five years. He tries to forget how big the sizes are that he can't even squeeze into anymore. He does his best to ignore how much of him there is to soap up in the shower these days.

And so he types,

 **>** rude

He doesn't squirm in his seat against jeans that are getting too tight in a completely different place.

It's not a _squirmy_ kind of embarrassing.

Definitely not the squirmy kind of embarrassing that would have him typing,

 **>** i'm not that out of shape

Not just to see if Derek's going to bring up how quickly his out-of-shape ass got tired when he was on top the other night.

Or how they'd had to tweak the position in the first place so Stiles's belly wouldn't be in the way.

"Stiles!"

Stiles jerks around in his chair.

"Did you not hear me the first three times? Line 2's for you."

"What?"

Parrish, standing up in his next-door cubicle, is looking down at him with an exasperated expression. Stiles, suddenly very aware of his hot his cheeks are, slams his phone face-down on his desk.

He also slides in closer to his desk to cover up any possible... reaction down in the crotch area.

Then he remembers his dick isn't actually two feet long and so his gut would have done a good enough job by itself.

"It's IT," Jordan tells him. "The personnel database was hacked into earlier today."

"Oh, that's all?"

Jordan looks incredulous. "All? This is a huge privacy breach. Not to mention if any criminals with a grudge got ahold of it—"

Stiles waves a hand. "Dude, it's fine. It was me."

"You?"

"Just a routine test," he assures him.

"They sound pretty panicked," Jordan says with a reluctant frown. "Did they forget the test was today?"

"You guys hired a cybersecurity consultant, not a kindergarten teacher." Stiles rolls his eyes. "Consider it a pop quiz. They failed, by the way."

"Right," Jordan says, sitting back down at his desk. "Well, I'll just let you tell them that yourself. Line 2."

Stiles glances down at the call flashing on hold and decides it won't hurt to let them panic a little longer. He takes a quick peek at his cell.

There's no reply yet.

On some mad impulse, he types in another message.

Derek's reply comes in while Stiles is still on the phone. He freezes in the middle of his lecture.

"Stiles? Are you still there?"

"Uh, yeah." Stiles tries to remember where he was, then decides he doesn't really care anymore. "Well, in conclusion, firewalls are a thing."

He hangs up and looks at his cell again. The words haven't changed. His stomach twists unpleasantly.


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles fumes. Then drinks a Diet Coke. Then gets offended by the very taste of it and eats two donuts to make up for it. Then starts to feel a bit sick and has to mentally count up how many donuts he's eaten today.

He looks up diets. Then he gets angry that he even had to think about "diet" and "Derek" in the same sentence. He closes all the tabs, erases his browser history, and slams his laptop shut.

One second he's cocky and secure, trying to figure out ways to tease his boyfriend with his extra chub.

The next second...

He looks through Derek's text messages again.

This morning, he'd read each response picturing Derek saying them in that way he does. That way he makes fat sound like a compliment and out of shape sound oddly hot. And how any mention of Stiles's weight is usually accompanied by hazel eyes looking him over in clear interest and hands sneaking appreciative touches.

Stiles had never considered that Derek hadn't been lying whenever he denied having a kink. Hadn't ever thought that while Derek might like something to hold onto, maybe he isn't all that into finding a _lot_ to hold onto when a _little_ would do.

Hadn't thought that Derek's hints that Stiles was getting chunkier could be anything other than kinkily appreciative. That they could be, well. Hints. The normal kind you give someone when they're packing on a few too many.

Reading the texts over again, Stiles gets increasingly embarrassed with each one — and not in a squirmy way this time. It only gets worse when he's at the end and Derek's last one still reads the same as it did hours ago.

 **>** _want me to gain more weight?_

 **> >** of course not

"You're supposed to be on my side here." Stiles is back to fuming again and the least he could ask is for a little support.

"I'm just saying—" Scott tries.

"You don't even like Derek," Stiles reminds him. He takes a resentful swig of his beer and then types the address for Pizza Express into his laptop.

"He's not so bad."

"Excellent." Stiles clicks angrily on the Meat-Lover's pizza.

When Stiles had first introduced Scott to Derek, it had turned out that he hadn't needed to make introductions. Stiles's hot downstairs neighbor was one and the same as Scott's hated senior firefighter, who'd spent Scott's rookie year chewing him out for taking stupidly unnecessary risks. 

Things had been a little tense whenever they were all in the same room together. But then Derek had taken a stupidly unnecessary risk himself to save Scott from his own stupidly unnecessary risk and they'd both gotten themselves chewed out by their chief.

And then by Stiles.

Stiles knew they'd been getting along better since then, but he hadn't realized that it had been so much of a bonding experience that Scott's very loyalties had been transferred away his best friend since _elementary school_.

"I thought you liked him a little, too, though," Scott says. "He's your boyfriend."

"I did like him," Stiles seethes. "Right up until he wanted to put me on a _diet_."

"Is that really what he meant, though?" Scott says through the phone. "I mean, he has to know that's not likely to happen. He has met you."

"Thanks. That makes me feel so much better." Stiles glares at the computer screen and then changes the pizza size from large to extra-large.

"Plus," Scott continues doggedly. "Anyone can see he totally worships you. Are you sure you're not jumping to conclusions?"

"There's only one conclusion to jump to!" Stiles throws his arms in the air. "Look, do you have any idea how much weight my fat ass is packing on lately?"

"Um—"

"You do the math and it's not even a pound a week. It's, like, nothing." He selects an order of breadsticks, then changes them to the cheesy ones. "But, apparently, when you multiply nothing by a few years, you get something." He glances down at the gut stretching out his sweatshirt. "A lot of something."

"Stiles—"

"Look," Stiles continues. "It's not like I'm pigging out every day, dude." He clicks on the Pizza Express checkout button. "If Derek wants me to keep my _svelte_ figure, that means he wants my fat ass on a diet."

"I just think—"

"Now, Scott, if you'll excuse me, I have to go drown my sorrows in pizza and beer."

The bacon tastes like betrayal and the pepperoni tastes like self-pity. Even the extra cheese doesn't make him feel better.

Stiles washes the Meat-Lover's pizza down with the last beer in his fridge and a pint and a half of Chunky Monkey.

"Know any good diets?" Stiles interrupts Allison's summary of the McDonnell case the next day.

Allison stops mid-sentence, mouth open. "You're asking me if I know any good _diets_?"

"Well, yeah. Only one of the two of us here is still packing their college weight." Stiles pats his gut in illustration. It's folded over the waistband of his biggest jeans. Jeans that were fresh out of the dryer this morning but that only gave him a little trouble, thank you very much.

Allison purses her lips.

"Not that I'm saying you _needed_ a diet," Stiles quickly adds. "You were still thin. Well, thinner than me, at least. Which is, I'll admit, not saying much, even back then. But—"

"Stiles."

"You're skinny again now, though!" Stiles gestures at her. "Okay, maybe not skinny-skinny. Not like in high school. But you still must have gone on some kind of diet, right?"

"Stiles," Allison repeats more firmly.

"Um." Stiles glances around her Junior Detective office in a futile search for another 'Stiles' he might blame this conversation on. "Yes?"

He's well aware that it's only the fact that she's known him since sophomore year of high school that makes her skip the do-deserved-violence-to-Stiles and cut directly to a gentle, "I didn't know you wanted to lose weight."

Stiles glances down at himself. "Of course I want to. Why wouldn't I?"

"Oh." She tilts her head. "I always thought you were fine with getting..."

"You can say the word 'fat'," Stiles tells her when she trails off.

"I wasn't going to say 'fat'," she protests. But she doesn't offer up an alternative word, either.

"And I _am_ fine with it," Stiles says defensively, crossing his arms over his chest. Since he's sitting down, they rest on top of his belly. "I made my peace with being a little chunky years ago."

"But you want to go on a diet?"

"Of course not. What I _want_ is to wave a magic wand and magically shed a hundred pounds of flab."

Allison frowns.

"Not that I have a hundred pounds to lose!" Stiles backtracks hastily. "It's a figure of speech. And, anyways, I'm not going on a diet. Why are we even talking about diets?"

"I don't know," she says slowly. "I thought we were going over the McDonnell case."

"And even if I _did_ want to go on a diet," Stiles lifts his chin righteously, "I wouldn't do it just because _some guy_ won't accept me the way I am."

"Lydia. Lyds. Lyds. Don't hang up on me," Stiles begs as he drives home. "I need you."

Lydia's voice crackles from his speakerphone. "What part of 'my thesis proposal is due next week' did you not understand?"

"Well, what part of 'my boyfriend was supposed to have a chubby kink but instead he wants to put me on a diet' did _you_ not understand?" Stiles snips back.

"Stiles. I don't have time to help you freak out over three words in a text message. Isn't Scott free?"

"I'm not _freaking out_ ," Stiles says. And then quickly adds, "And I'm not _jumping to conclusions_ either."

"Stiles—"

"I'm also not going on a diet," he warns her. And then makes a split-second decision, swerving into the turn lane at the stoplight to an irritated honk behind him. "You know what? I'm going shopping."

When Stiles gets back to his apartment, he's glad that no one's there to witness him flushed and panting from carrying an armful each of laptop bags and shopping bags up to his seventh-floor apartment.

"You're home."

"Gah!"

The various bags hit the ground with more than a few ominous clanks and crashes. Stiles whirls around to the living room to find one Derek Hale sitting there.

"What are you doing here?"

Derek pauses from where he'd moved to stand up. "I told you I'd meet you after my shift, remember?"

"But that was before!"

"Before...?"

"Before our fight!" Stiles throws his arms in the air, the anger and frustration and disappointment from the last day boiling over all at once.

"Are you all right, Stiles?"

"I'm fine. Just fine." Stiles snatches up his shopping bags and stomps over to drop them on the table in front of Derek. "I went shopping."

"I... see that."

"Clothes shopping," Stiles tells him meaningfully.

"Good."

"Good?" Stiles repeats, putting his hands on his chubby hips. "Why good? Because I needed new clothes? Because I've packed on so much weight that I can't squeeze my fat ass into half my wardrobe?"

"Well." Derek frowns. "Yes?"

Stiles glares at him.

"Stiles." Derek stands up and reaches for him. Stiles takes a step backwards. "Did something happen?"

"No." Stiles grabs for one bag and pulls out his new jeans. He holds them up to show how wide they are. "I got new jeans, see?"

"Okay?"

"They're a couple sizes up, so they're a little loose, but I figure I need some room to grow, right?"

Derek's eyes flick between him and the jeans.

Stiles tosses the jeans back onto the table and grabs one of the t-shirts from the next bag. He holds it up for Derek to see. "Triple-XL, take a look. I mean, the 2XLs still fit, but that's not going to last forever, is it?"

He tosses it aside and starts to reach for the last bag when he feels a hand close over his wrist.

"Are you upset because you needed bigger sizes?" Derek asks. "Because it doesn't—"

"Weren't you just listening? I don't need bigger sizes now." Stiles shakes off his grip. "I'm telling you I _will_ need bigger sizes. Seeing as I'm still packing on the pounds."

Derek looks at him for a long moment and then says quietly, "I didn't think it bothered you this much."

"That what bothered me?"

"Getting heavier."

"Does it bother you?" Stiles fires back.

Derek looks taken aback. "Why would _I_ be bothered?"

Stiles snorts. "Yeah, that's the question of the day, isn't it."

Derek gives a frustrated sigh. "I just got off a 36-hour shift. Can't you just _tell_ me what we're arguing about? Are you really going to keep making me guess?"

Stiles glares at him.

"Are you blaming me because you gained more weight? Is that it?" Derek runs an agitated hand through the his gelled hair. "Just because I like how you look doesn't mean — Look, if you wanted to go on a diet that lasted longer than your first donut of the morning, I would actually support you, you know."

"I'm sure you would," Stiles mutters, stung.

"Well, it wasn't _me_ who made you order an extra-large pizza last night, was it?"

Stiles glances at the empty pizza box that Derek must have noticed sitting on his counter. He sets his jaw as he turns back to him. "What? Would you have preferred I'd eaten a smaller one? Nixed the breadsticks, at least? Or maybe just had a side salad instead? Or, I don't know, maybe even skipped a meal for once in my life?"

Derek stares at him.

"Did you find the ice cream cartons, too?" Stiles asks. "Have thoughts you want to share on those?"

"Stiles, what the fuck—?"

Stiles prompts him, "How about thoughts like, if I keep eating like this, I'm going to be needing those new clothes pretty soon?"

"Of course you're going to need them. This isn't news." Derek crosses thick arms over his chest. "But _I_ don't care if you need bigger clothes. Why the hell are you pretending you don't know that?"

Stiles opens his mouth to point out that they wouldn't be having this argument if Derek didn't care, but Derek cuts him off.

"No. You know what? I'm tired. I don't know what's going on. I'm going to go." He picks up his keys and walks to the door, throwing back behind him, "Come find me whenever you decide I'm not a complete asshole, all right?"


	4. Chapter 4

Stiles has few regrets in life, but not picking up more Ben & Jerry's tonight is one of them.

He settles on the couch with the sad half a pint remaining from the night before and pulls out his phone.

 **>** _want me to gain more weight?_

 **> >** of course not

Looking at the words this time, a tiny, niggling bit of guilt tempers his indignation. Derek genuinely hadn't seemed to get what they were arguing about.

He bites his lip and flicks to his photos, and then scrolls well-worn path up to the picture he'd saved from Allison's Facebook.

She'd cajoled him and Derek into posing for a photo, but before she could take it, Stiles had remembered a story to tell Derek. So, in the middle of a bright sunny street, he's talking animatedly and Derek is looking at him instead of the camera and ...

And they look _cute_ together. It looks like the kind of picture a guy might put on his lock screen. And Stiles had saved it to his phone to do just that, except he hadn't been sure if they were one of _those_ couples.

They do _look_ like one of those couples, though. Like the kind of couple that has a meet-cute story that doesn't involve one of them mistaking the other for a sex worker on Christmas Eve and the both of them just deciding to go with it.

In the photo, Derek is watching Stiles with the kind of unguarded expression that makes Stiles see why Scott says Derek looks like he worships him. Stiles is gesturing widely to illustrate a point, but Derek has his arms around him. One hand's on his back, and the other one is resting lightly on his stomach.

Junior year of college, Stiles had dated a guy who'd helpfully remind him to suck his tummy in whenever someone had a camera phone out. Sucking his tummy in these days is hardly going to keep it from poking out. Not that he's making any attempt here. In fact, his hoodie's a bit snug and, zipped up, it makes him look even rounder than usual. And Derek touching him only draws the eye there.

But the Derek in this photo just looks like any other guy who might give his boyfriend's waist an affectionate touch. Like a guy who hasn't given the extra inches there a second thought.

It was such a familiar kind of touch that Stiles hadn't even noticed his hand was there until he'd seen the photo the next day.

And, looking at it again, Stiles is forced to concede that, while the Derek may not actually _want_ him to gain weight, he's pretty unlikely to make him feel bad for it.

In fact, if Stiles hadn't asked him point blank, it's possible Derek might not have ever mentioned that he preferred Stiles didn't.

Not wanting one's boyfriend to get any closer to pushing 300 pounds might not even be the most egregious offense. In fact, that's probably a pretty normal preference.

Stiles digs the last spoonful of ice cream out of the container and looks down at his phone again.

It's starting to feel kind of petty to punish the Derek in this photo for being into Stiles's chub, but not in a kinky enough way. 

"Stiles?"

Stiles groans and squeezes his eyes tighter shut.

"What are you doing here?"

"What are _you_ doing here?" he mumbles back.

"It's my bed."

Stiles yawns against a firm chest. He feels some drool pooled there. Gross. Sometimes he wonders why Derek even lets him in.

"I didn't let you in," Derek tells him dryly. "You snuck in while I was sleeping."

Right. Stiles remembers now. He heaves himself up onto an elbow from where he's starfished across Derek.

No matter what position they go to sleep in, this is the one he finds himself in in the morning. It's been about a year since he got too round in the middle to comfortably sleep face-down but Derek is the perfect alternative. If he sprawls an arm and leg across him and uses his chest as a pillow, and his belly fits surprisingly nicely between the taper of Derek's waist and the bed.

He considerately wipes Derek's chest with a corner of the sheet.

Derek's still looking at him expectantly. His eyes are a light blue-green in the morning light, his black hair is rumpled from sleep, but in a more artful way than should be possible, and his sharp jaw is sporting a five o'clock shadow that could star in a beard-trimmer commercial.

And don't even get Stiles started on his body.

Derek is frustratingly attractive at any time of day, but it's even more annoying to deal with at — Stiles squints over at the bedside clock — 6:30 AM.

"It's too early, man." Stiles settles his head back onto Derek's muscled chest. "I don't have to be at work til nine."

"Stiles."

"You have the day off," Stiles complains. "I know you do."

Derek sighs, his chest rising and falling again under Stiles's cheek. He says, "We need to talk."

Stiles groans. He pushes himself off Derek and rubs his eyes, resigning himself to an early morning.

"Look," he says. "You said to come find you when I decided you weren't an asshole."

Derek turns onto his side so he's facing him. Their knees nudge together.

"Are you going to tell me when you decided I _was_ an asshole?" he asks.

Stiles would kind of prefer to just forget the whole thing ever happened.

"Stiles." Derek props his head on an elbow and rests a hand on the side of Stiles's stomach.

Stiles looks down. He's in his usual old pajama bottoms, that would probably be too small if the elastic wasn't permanently stretched out in the waist. His t-shirt is in similar condition, worn but snug, and underneath it his stomach slumps onto the bed.

Derek's hand on him is familiar and comfortable. It reminds Stiles of that photograph.

"How much weight do you think I've gained?" Stiles asks.

"I don't know." Derek rubs his stomach gently. "Not a lot."

"A noticeable amount, though?"

"Yeah."

Stiles sighs and rubs his eyes. "I don't want to see 300 on the scale."

"Don't think that'll be a problem."

"You don't?" Stiles is surprised.

"You made us buy the one that maxed at 300," Derek reminds him. "You'd just see error again."

Stiles groans. "You know, you're not as funny as you think you are."

Derek just hums. He fiddles with the hem of Stiles's shirt, tugging it down from where it's riding up.

"Look, it's not like I _want_ to get fatter," Stiles tells him.

"I know."

"But not wanting to get fat hasn't stopped me yet," he says. "And I want to go on a diet even less."

"Okay."

"Okay?" Stiles repeats, shifting so he can eye him. "You don't have to sound so resigned."

"Resigned?" Derek says, frustration creeping into his voice. "Stiles, the only thing I'm _resigned_ to right now is not finding out why we're arguing about it."

"I think that's pretty obvious."

Stiles heaves himself up so he can grab his phone from the bedside table. He holds it up to show Derek.

But if he'd expected dawning understanding at seeing the text messages — let alone apology or reassurance — he would have been sorely disappointed. Derek's brows just knit together and he looks more confused.

"You don't want me to gain weight," Stiles reminds him.

"Well, no, of course not."

Stiles tosses his phone onto the bed in exasperation. "Dude, could your messages possibly get any more mixed? You know I'm getting fatter, you don't care if I don't want to go on a diet, but you also don't want me to gain weight?"

"Stiles, it's your body. I'm not going to tell you —" Derek stops, realization finally coming over his face. "Wait. Is this what we're arguing about?" He sits straight up, covers dropping off his naked torso. "You actually think _I_ have a problem with you getting bigger?"

"Obviously!"

"You accuse me of having a fat fetish on a weekly basis!"

"Well, if I'd known that my getting fatter would be a turnoff, I never would have," Stiles says grumpily.

"A _turnoff_?" Derek's mouth drops open. He looks up and down Stiles's body, expression incredulous. He looks like he's going to say something but cuts himself off and meets Stiles's eyes again. "This isn't about me, Stiles."

"Then what—"

"Stiles, listen." Derek lays a hand back over the mound of his stomach. "I know you'd like to be in a bit better shape than this."

"Um."

"Maybe even fit into the sizes you did in college." Derek nudges at the waistband of Stiles's pajama pants, where even the stretched-out elastic is a bit tight over his hip.

"I think that bridge got burnt when I took a job with free donuts," Stiles tells him dryly.

"Yeah, probably," Derek says. "But, look, I was there when you got on the scale a couple months ago, remember?"

Stiles does remember, a little too well. He prefers to think about afterwards, when he'd reaped the rewards of the bet he'd won by the skin of his teeth.

"If you didn't like the number on it then, why would I _want_ you to gain more weight?" Derek asks. "In case you already forgot, I'm not actually an asshole."

Derek is looking at Stiles intently. Stiles stares back at him.

"Oh," he says finally. "You don't want me to gain weight because _I_ don't want to?"

After his realization last night, he still hadn't considered that _that_ would be the answer.

"Stiles." Derek runs a hand over his side, where his waist creases into two thick rolls, and then down to his chubby thigh. "You know how nice I think you look. You look so fucking good."

Stiles bites his lip.

"Do you actually think that could change?" Derek asks.

"Um." Stiles has to admit that Derek _is_ looking at him like he can't imagine feeling differently. "I might have jumped to conclusions."

Derek raises an eyebrow.

"And maybe even freaked out a little?" he concedes.

Derek's mouth twitches into a small smile and he shakes his head. "Okay. Can you just tell me we won't have this argument again?"

"As long as you don't tell Scott," Stiles negotiates.

"Why would I tell Scott?"

"No reason." Stiles waves a dismissive hand, then adds, "Lydia, either."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one more chapter i think!


	5. Chapter 5

Two weeks later, Derek is giving Stiles weird looks across the diner table.

"I know," Stiles tells him, gesturing to himself with the piece of pancake on his fork. He knows what this is about. "I was angry shopping and angry shopping leaves no time to try clothes on." He shrugs. "They're still comfortable, so not a total waste of money."

He's wearing his new clothes for the first time this weekend. He'd bought them to make a point, obviously, not because he was anywhere close to needing a bigger size. He'd tried them on this morning out of curiosity and, he won't lie, it was reassuring to find that a 3XL is still way too big for him. It hides his whole torso, barely even skimming the width of his stomach. It's practically unflattering, it's so big.

"That's only a 3XL?" Derek looks confused.

"What do you mean, only?" Stiles pulls at the loose fabric of the t-shirt. "This is gigantic, dude."

"But that's just one size up from what you usually wear."

"Yeah," Stiles says through a bite of sausage. "You could probably fit two of me in here. I'll probably never fit into this."

"You actually might not."

"I mean," Stiles continues, buoyed by the endorsement. "Can you imagine how big I'd have to be to fill this thing out? I'd probably have to gain a hundred pounds."

Derek gives him an inscrutable look. "Maybe not quite that much."

"Well I'd still be huge," Stiles insists through another bite of pancake. "I probably wouldn't even fit in this booth."

The booth is a bit of a snug fit now, but neither of them point that out. Though Derek does give Stiles's side of it a somewhat pointed look.

This is the first time either of them has brought up Stiles's weight in a while. Stiles is a bit embarrassed about their argument and Derek, clearly not eager to relive it, has broken the rule he'd made the day they'd met and seems to be pretending that his boyfriend isn't fat.

He doesn't shy away from Stiles's chubbier parts, but he's stopped lingering over them. He doesn't take any excuse to sneak an extra feel and doesn't stare when Stiles squeezes his stomach into too-tight clothes. He doesn't even comment on the clothes being too tight.

Or on how heavy Stiles feels. Or on the weight he thinks he's gained.

Stiles should be relieved. He doesn't need his boyfriend constantly reminding him of his weight problem. And he doesn't need the confusing squirmy embarrassment that comes with the reminders either. If his chubby parts had gotten accustomed to the extra attention — well, they'll just have to deal with it.

He's a bit less secure in his size than he'd been before their fateful text exchange, anyways. It's not that he doesn't believe that Derek hadn't meant that he had a problem with Stiles gaining weight, but. Well. He wouldn't be Stiles Stilinski if he hadn't spent the wee hours of the night they'd met scouring the internet for all he could find about chubby kink and fat fetishes and everything in between.

And there was a _lot_ to find. A lot a lot. But among the vast variety of kinky ways to be into one's partner's chub, wanting more of said chub was a pretty common thread.

Derek likes his body. Stiles knows that. He'd know it even if Derek didn't tell him that at least once a day.

But his ambivalence to Stiles gaining weight, combined with the lack of attention to his chubby parts lately, is making Stiles wonder if his memory's exaggerated quite how over-the-top into it Derek had been.

And it's catching up to Stiles now, just how heavy he's gotten. The weight is starting to feel less sexy and more just like a _lot_. And, in the least helpful of stress responses ever, the anxiety of knowing how close he is to 300 pounds is just making him eat more. And it's not like he wasn't already eating too much and —

Well, all he'll say is that it's an extra relief how big this new shirt is on him. It has him more relaxed about his size than he's been in a while.

And being more relaxed has him continuing on the topic as he makes his way through his breakfast.

"I'd definitely have real moobs by the time I fit into this," he's telling Derek. "And probably a third chin, too. Do you think it's one chin per X? Is that how it works?"

"Uh, maybe," Derek says faintly, ignoring his egg white omelet.

That afternoon, Derek interrupts _Avengers: Age of Ultron_ to say, "This isn't a 3XL."

Stiles bats his boyfriend's hands away from the neck of his t-shirt. "Yes, it is."

"It's not."

"Look, I'm flattered you think a 2X could be so big on me—"

"It's a 4X."

"No, it's not." Stiles twists around on the couch, groping behind himself for the tag.

"Does angry shopping also include not looking at the size before you buy?" Derek asks.

"Dude, there are only three X's on this thing." Stiles gives up on seeing the tag while the shirt's on him and jumps off the couch to strip it off. He shoves it tag-first at Derek. "See?"

Derek raises his eyebrows. "I see the number four."

Stiles sighs and looks down at the tag. He pauses.

Derek looks far more amused than the situation warrants.

"Well." Stiles thinks about it. "I'm sure 3XL would be almost as big."

Derek looks him up and down. Stiles glances down at himself, too, and realizes he's made himself half-naked in his own sunny living room. Half-naked and pale and fat and with even more stretch marks than moles on display these days.

He sucks in his bare belly and crosses his arms over himself.

"I think it'd fit you pretty well, actually." Derek stands up and slips his hands over Stiles's bare hips.

"Want to bet?"

Derek narrows his eyes. "No."

"Because you know you'll lose."

"Because the Captain America costume you picked out for me last time almost got me arrested."

"'Almost' being the important word." While Stiles spares a moment for a fond recollection of that night, Derek slips his fingers under the comfortable waist of his jeans.

"I think a 3XL would fit you as well as these jeans do," he says.

"You mean, two sizes too big?" Stiles tugs at the waistband to demonstrate. "Because these are practically falling off me, in case you didn't notice."

Derek smirks. "They look like they fit pretty well."

"Do you have any idea how easy these were to get on this morning?"

"Stiles." Derek rubs over his hips. "None of your pants are supposed to be as hard to button as they are."

"Dude, I don't need a size —" Stiles glances around his own apartment and then leans in to whisper the size to Derek.

Derek chuckles.

"Well, I don't," Stiles insists, affronted. "My old jeans fit perfectly fine. As do my 2XL t-shirts, by the way."

"Do they?" Derek strokes over the soft skin of Stiles's lower belly. It rolls over his jeans because no matter how big the waistband is, he's not going to fasten it over his paunch like an old man. Derek says, "They like to show this bit off here."

Stiles pushes his hand away. "For your information, it's normal for shirts to ride up when you have a big tummy."

"Is it?" Derek looks down at said big tummy and — fuck.

Stiles watches Derek watch his belly. He's not trying to suck in anymore. He's fat. Really, properly fat. And it's only emphasized by how he can't see anything below the top slope of his belly and the puffiness that appeared around his belly button along with his holiday weight.

He wonders if Derek thinks he's looking even "fuller" after these couple weeks of overeating. He wonders if he's noticed him taking more servings than usual. He wonders if he's feeling heavier.

He licks his lips.

He wants to ask. He's missed this far more than he should. Missed this line between embarrassed and aroused. Wants to go back to how it had felt when he'd sent Derek photographic proof that he couldn't squeeze his fat belly into the jeans he'd worn the day they met.

Derek must, for some reason, be thinking about that day, too. Because, when he finally looks up from Stiles's stomach, he says, "That day you texted me. When I was on shift. Why did you ask if I wanted you to gain weight?"

"Um."

Derek's voice is quiet. "You didn't like the answer."

"I mean," Stiles starts. But he can't think of what to say next. This doesn't seem like quite the time to confess to his research into the darkest corners of the internet. Or how he'd mentally categorized all the kinkier stuff he'd come across into "might be fun"s and "maybe"s and "hard no"s. Or that he'd been waiting for an opening to make Derek admit that he was into Stiles's chub a little more than a normal amount.

Derek is still waiting for an answer.

"You thought I'd gained some weight," Stiles says finally. "And you'd just seemed like you were kind of into it, so..."

Derek stiffens.

"I mean, I get it, man," Stiles assures him. "Maybe I'd just liked the idea of it a bit too much."

After a beat, Derek asks softly, "You liked the idea of what, Stiles?"

Stiles sighs. "Look, I'm open-minded, I don't mind being objectified a little, and it's not like I'm not getting fatter anyways. If you were into it in a kinky way, I thought it might be fun to just, you know," he shrugs, "go with it."

Derek is still looking at him.

"It's not your fault you're not into that," Stiles assures him quickly. "I guess I just put myself out there. So I might have overreacted a little when you shot me down."

Derek face falls. "I shot you down?"

"No, no. Shit." Stiles wishes he hadn't said anything.

"Just tell me what you wanted me to do." Derek steps closer and touches his waist. He looks into his eyes.

"Nothing, I—"

"You wanted something," Derek pushes. "Something you think I couldn't give you?"

Fuck. Derek still looks so unhappy. Stiles covers the hand on his waist with his own. "That's not what I meant."

"Do you think I wouldn't try?" Derek's eyes are intent. Before Stiles can protest, he asks, "Do you think I have to have a fetish to like you?"

"Dude, it's the 2010s. You can call it a kink," Stiles says. He flashes Derek his trademark tension-diffusing grin. "And, believe it or not, I do know that. Some people actually find me oddly charming."

Derek refuses to be derailed, though. He says, "You're heavier than when I met you. If you wanted me to want you to gain weight — you already have, Stiles." 

"Um."

Derek steps closer to him. Stiles's feels his back hit the wall. His belly pushes between them.

Derek thumbs over a roll at his side and tells him, "I don't have to have a — kink — to like your body, either."

"I know that," Stiles huffs. "I'm not _complaining_." He feels his bare stomach squishing against the much leaner one hiding under Derek's slim-cut black t-shirt. "How many guys who've outgrown sizes that normal stores stock get scorching hot boyfriends who don't mind their fat bods?"

"Stiles," Derek says. "Shut up."

He leans in to kiss him, presumably in an attempt to shut Stiles up himself. But the reminder of how far he has to lean over his belly has Stiles interrupting with, "Are you sure you wouldn't prefer I was subtracting an X instead of on my way to adding one?"

"What?" Derek pulls back, more than a hint of frustration in his voice. "Are you actually asking me this?"

"Um. I guess I am?" Stiles says. He hastily continues, "Look, I'm not _insecure_ or anything. And I know you like a little cushion for the pushin' —"

"Cushion for the _what_?"

"It's a saying. Don't worry about it." Stiles waves a hand. "But you should know, I still had plenty of cushion —" He looks pointedly down at where his stomach is cushioning Derek's abs. "— before I added another X to extra-large."

Derek steps back. He looks incredulous. "Stiles."

Stiles waits expectantly.

"Are you fishing for compliments?"

Oh.

"Are you going to give me some?" Stiles asks.

Derek sighs a long-suffering sigh. "Stiles. I'd still like you if you were thinner. You were cute even before the little pot belly."

Stiles eyes him suspiciously, placing a protective hand over his middle. "And how would you know? You didn't know me then."

"There's this little invention called photographs," Derek says. "Maybe you've heard of it?"

"Ha ha." Then Stiles narrows his eyes further. "What, did Scott pull out the baby albums?"

"You're the one who made me friend you on Facebook," Derek reminds him.

Right. Derek had had to dig out the post-it note with his password and Stiles had been forced to withhold sex until he'd changed it to something other than "password1234".

Stiles hadn't thought about it at the time, but all the photos he's tagged in probably provide a pretty comprehensive journey through Stiles Stilinski's College Weight Gain Adventures.

"Yeah, well, you couldn't have found _that_ many photos of skinny Stiles," he says defensively, trying to pretend the thought doesn't make him a little self-conscious. "Pizza and beer and Red Bull did me in pretty quick."

Derek's lips twitch. "So, same as now?"

"Dude, I traded in the Red Bull for donuts."

"Of course." Derek's eyes drop to his stomach. "Well, the little pot belly you got was cute, too."

Stiles protests, "It wasn't that little."

"No," Derek agrees. "It wasn't."

Stiles frowns. The sheer affection in Derek's voice is making him a disgruntled sort of jealous over his former pot-bellied self. He pats his stomach and argues, "I've still got a pot belly under here."

The amount his stomach fat wobbles with the motion might undermine his point a little.

Derek raises an eyebrow. "Do you?"

Before Stiles can defend his belly's honor, Derek presses a hand into the wobble of it and leans in.

Stiles, despite himself, lets him kiss the pout off his lips. And then lets him kiss him some more.

"Those donuts made you _soft_ ," Derek murmurs. He squeezes Stiles's soft underbelly, and then squeezes his sides. There's something rougher than just affection in his voice this time.

"You like it?" Stiles asks, pulling back to meet his eyes.

"Yeah, Stiles, I do. I really fucking do." Derek kisses him again. "Keep up."

**Author's Note:**

> You know, I'm not even going to pretend I don't have a Derek POV sequel half-plotted out. This series doesn't want to end. I hope you're enjoying it as much as I am! Thanks for reading!


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